


the way we move through space and time, or only time

by disfellowship



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Billy Hargrove Being Gross, Come Eating, Coming In Pants, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Not Happy, Self-Esteem Issues, Steve Harrington Needs Love, Underage Drinking, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 13:37:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21137576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disfellowship/pseuds/disfellowship
Summary: “What thehellare you doing,” theheregoes unsaid. His voice is raspy and his throat fuckingburns. He needs to drink some water.Billy turns around, lets Steve peek at what he’s cooking over by the stove. “I’m makingbreakfast.”“Why.” Steve pours himself some coffee, instead, leaves his question mark in the mug.It’s not the coffee he made yesterday. Billy probably brewed some more, this morning.“Because I gothungry,” he canhearthe eye roll, doesn’t see it because Billy turned back around, shuffling over a big pan.Or: glimpses of Summer '85





	the way we move through space and time, or only time

**Author's Note:**

> this started out as a fluffly one shot about Billy cooking Steve eggs.
> 
> it quickly turned into this angsty Frankenstein's monster. i still hope you enjoy it?
> 
> (nothing happens but if you wanna skip it!) TW for non-con elements and a following discussion in the very last part of this

The way it’s night for many miles, and then suddenly

it’s not, it’s breakfast

and you’re standing in the shower for over an hour,

holding the bar of soap up to the light.

I will keep watch. I will water the yard.

Knot the tie and go to work. Unknot the tie and go to sleep.

I sleep. I dream. I make up things

that I would never say. I say them very quietly.

The trees in wind, the streetlights on,

the click and flash of cigarettes

being smoked on the lawn, and just a little kiss before we say goodnight.

_\- Meanwhile_, by Richard Siken

_ zero._

It’s eight in the morning.

They had a twelve hour shift that ended eleven hours ago, and then they went to get trashed at some house party because they’re stupid, so.

Steve’s running on three hours of proper sleep, cooking Robin breakfast, and he’s not even trying to charm his way into her pants, he’s just doing it to be _nice_.

This is what happens when he’s nice.

“I mean, seriously, who takes _forty minutes_ to cook eggs? Are you, like, that big of a Salmonella truther?” Robin snarls, legs dangling from where she’s sitting by the sink even though Steve told her to use a stool.

“Salmonella is _real_,” Steve says, because it’s not often that he gets to be smarter than Robin, and she rolls her eyes at him, because he’s not. “I have to take it slow. Brown eggs are _gross_.”

“They’re the exact same on the inside. _Racist_.”

“I’m talking about _scrambled_ eggs. When they burn, the brown bits, it’s just,” — _shudder_ — “_ew_. I have to take my time.”

“You are _such_ a priss, oh my God,” she snorts. “Remind me again why we even hang out?”

Steve stays put, with his navel pressed to the front of the stove, shoving at the eggs, cheese and turkey breast cooking over browned butter on his non-stick skillet, with a rubber spatula. _Don’t use metal on non-stick surfaces. _

_God_, he’d die for his kitchenware; his obsession is admittedly borderline sexual.

“_You_ are living out your little high school crush with me, and I’m, I don’t know, paying for my sins? Or _Karma_? Maybe I’m a masochist,” he replies, grinding some black pepper on top of their breakfast.

“Oh, do you have a _humiliation kink_, dingus?” She hums around a sliver of Pecorino she fed herself. “Why do you even have so much cheese, anyway?”

“I have a _Teflon_ kink. _Look_,” Steve says pointedly, breaching his runny concoction to mesmerize at the pristine, clear bottom of the pan.

If he _really_ wanted to show off, he could’ve used his mom’s Le Creuset, but he doesn’t _actually_ want to get bullied into tomorrow, thank you very much.

Anyway, Robin’s not even looking.

“Is your mom on one of her weird diets again?” she’s inspecting the apparently excessive amounts of cheese the Harringtons harbor in their refrigerator. Steve shrugs.

“Probably, who knows. Hey, do you want mushrooms with your eggs?”

“_Gross_, no. That’s a literal _fungus_, what is wrong with you?” Robin asks, like her favorite ice cream flavor isn’t fucking _pistachio_, and proceeds to scavenge Steve’s fridge for more stand-up material.

She settles down beside the fruit basket, this time, on a different counter.

Steve’s convinced her mission in life is to leave butt prints all over his kitchen and try to kill him with embarrassment.

Robin rips the plastic straw from the back of the coconut water she found and plunges it inside.

“Now this is great,” she says, like a crazy person, about _boxed coconut water_. Steve gawks at her like she’s drinking his first born, blended up.

“That’s—_disgusting_, coconut water literally tastes like _come_,” Steve turns the stove off, satisfied.

He takes two dishes from the cupboard overheard, roughly divides the food into two equal parts, plops them down on the plates. _Voila_.

“And how would you know, mister?” Robin smirks around a mouthful of Gouda. He shoves a plate towards her.

“_And how would you know_,” Steve mocks, high pitched. Rolls his eyes and everything. “I don’t know, Robin, take a wild guess.”

“Jesus, I was just _teasing_ you,” she’s stabbing at her eggs and scooping them up onto her fork with a finger. “_Cocksucker—_ohmy_God_, this tastes _amazing_.”

“Yeah, no shit. _Wait_, put some truffle oil on top.”

Steve kind of. _Keeps waiting_ for it to be a big deal, for the moment when he’ll actually have to come out, say _sometimes I like guys, too_ whenever he eventually has to over explain a joke that got lost on someone or something, but.

It never happens, the kids never ask more than two vague questions at a time, Robin sure as shit doesn’t need more than that, and so Steve guesses they’re either _that_ uninterested or he’s that blatantly _into dick_.

Steve rejoices some in the thanklessness of being _him_ when Robin ends up crouched by his toilet in the guest bathroom, throwing up the remains of the last twelve hours, like it was probably bound to happen all along.

_Karma_, indeed.

“I don’t think I’ve ever puked so _lavishly_,” she says, in between dry heaves. “I think I taste some_ tax fraud_.”

“_God_, can you just like. _Choke_,” Steve whines, handing her a glass of water and two aspirins.

After the better half of an hour sitting on cold tile, facing each other, Robin shoves Steve out of the bathroom to take a shower, flinging her uniform at him and demanding _the soft cycle for thirty minutes _on his washing machine.

He leans against the door when he threatens to empty his laundry detergent in her coffee; she laughs over the sound of the water stream.

Eventually Steve does do their laundry, sticks them in the dryer, uses like, _three_ dryer sheets because he doesn’t even know how that shit _works_, goes upstairs to take a shower of his own.

When he gets out, he’s already breaking into a sweat, the muggy Indiana heat rolling up in waves in his bedroom.

Steve’s _so_ done with his day and it’s barely ten.

He manages not to shrink their clothes, but they’re not all the way dry and Steve suspects not even all the way _clean_, yet they put their uniforms on anyway and get into his warm BMW, and soon enough, Steve’s in the food court of Starcourt Mall, stuffing himself with Chinese and listening to Robin talk about the Notre Dame student she met last night.

“And so I was like, _what brings you to Hawkins_, you know, and she said in the cutest accent ever, like, _road trip_, and _smiled_.”

“Accent?” Steve asks with his mouth full of chicken fried rice. She nods, proud.

“_British_.”

“That’s hot,” he says into his soda, and she agrees, and then they fall into a comfortable silence.

At eleven, Robin grabs Steve and both their fortune cookies and hauls him into the backroom of Scoops Ahoy, where they clock in and sign their souls over to Mayor Kline or Adam Smith or whatever.

If Steve were smarter he’d probably be like, _anti-work_ or something, like that one German dude.

If he’d gotten into college it’d be so easy to pass it off as studied rebellion, but the truth is he just feels so _robbed_ earning minimum wage.

At least he doesn’t have to _think_ to do his job; that’s a prerequisite for him.

He’s on his one and only break — _ah_, the peaks and valleys of the six hour shift — when Dustin walkies him, saying _Hey, Steve! The Party’s going to the pool at four and then we’re swinging by the Scoops for free ice cream, okay? Over. _Steve silently curses himself for even _trying_.

Free food, that’s like, _in_ the Communist manifesto, right?

Robin yanks the sliding divider open, halting his train of thought.

He’s holding the Walkie Talkie in his hand and half a banana in his mouth, sitting at the table in their break room.

Anna Jacobi is standing at the cash register, looking absolutely _disgusted_.

“_What_,” Steve snaps, glaring. Robin pulls the corners of her mouth sourly, into what she probably thinks is a smile.

“Uh, that diabetic kid, Greg, just threw up all over the booth. And I’m kind of handling the register, so.”

“So? Call a Code V on the transmitter, the mall has _janitors_,” Robin huffs at his suggestion.

“It doesn’t _work_ like that, you _dingus_, clean it up. I’ll help you in a _minute_,” she gestures with the hand that’s holding Anna’s change, he guesses.

Steve huffs back in response, mentally curses whoever made the decision that he should be born, and grabs his _supplies_.

_God_ is probably a Communist, too, if his rich kid downward spiral is any indication.

After dousing himself in rubbing alcohol, gagging for ten minutes straight and nearly _crying_, Steve gets himself together enough to work the register for the last hour of his shift.

The mall is emptier now, the shop even more so, and he’s growing dangerously excited for his day to be over, just completely setting himself up for disappointment, really, but he can’t bring himself to _care_.

Of course, all _that_ flies out the window when Dustin struts into Scoops Ahoy, the whole party tailgating, even that weird girl Steve _knows_ isn’t allowed in the mall for some reason, and then tailgating _them_ is Billy Hargrove.

“You’re kidding,” Steve says directly to Dustin, like, _you_ _fatass Brutus_ or whatever, because why would he willingly bring Billy Hargrove into what is basically Steve’s second home, where he’s arguably the most vulnerable, sans bat and sailor suit on.

Dustin just _shrugs_, the little shit.

“Max needed a ride and she said he’s _paying_. Redemption, or whatever,” he explains, tapping on the glass, pointing at the chocolate pint.

“Cheap whores,” Steve says, reaching into the display to scoop up the ice cream. “All of you.”

Billy’s shoving through the clamoring children at the register, walking up to the counter and pulling out a twenty.

Steve rolls his eyes so hard they _hurt_.

“I’ll have a vanilla cone, Harrington. Extra sprinkles; I’ve been a _good boy_.”

“You’re the _worst_,” Steve corrects him, gives him the round, confetti sprinkles, which are obviously the inferior type of sprinkles, because they don’t even _crunch_, and shoves the ice cream towards Billy.

Billy licks a long, disgusting, milky stripe up the cone, grinning, and Steve wants to lock himself in their freezer.

“You’re so cute when you’re grumpy,” Billy says, vanilla beading his ratty mustache.

Steve’s eyes dart to the kids, who have all taken their places around six tables, even though they only needed like, _two_, getting their sticky prints all over the countertops Steve just bussed.

So yeah, he is grumpy, and he’s _right_.

Next to him, Robin’s finishing up a USS Butterscotch for Max and Lucas, and even though he only sees her with the corner of his eye, he _knows_ she’s smirking.

Assholes, he’s surrounded by assholes.

“I’m not _grumpy_, Jesus, I’m an _adult_. You should try it sometime?” Steve takes out two crumpled dollar bills from the register and hesitates.

Billy doesn’t even notice, doesn’t take his eye off Steve’s face. He _does_ shrug.

“I can cook, fuck and drive. I think that’s considered being an adult.”

“I’ve _seen_ you drive,” Steve counters, still holding Billy’s change. “As for the other two, I call bullshit.”

Billy sucks his thumb into his mouth. It’s dripping with melted ice cream because he won’t _shut the fuck up_ to eat it. He grins. “Could prove you wrong. Do some real _nice_, _adult_ things to you, then stick around and cook you _breakfast_. I’m a _gentleman_ like that.”

Robin snorts. She has her head down, pretending to be a respectful, unobtrusive coworker. Steve wishes.

“You wish. Jesus, don’t _you_ of all people feel some solidarity towards workplace harassment victims?”

“Harrington,” Billy says, all serious, like whatever crass shit he’s about to say will be important. “I’m a _lifeguard_. Little Wheeler’s mom?” he points with his thumb to where the kids are seated, behind him. “Practically _creams_ herself every time she sees me.”

“Oh, _gross_, Hargrove, and that—what, that means you like it?”

Billy laughs and it’s so _evil_, and Robin’s definitely listening but not backing Steve up at all and he just wants to die.

Like, that’s his _ex’s mother_.

“Anyone with a _dick_ would, Stevie.”

“_Whatever_,” Steve scoops himself some cherries jubilee, serves it on a cone he knows he won’t eat.

“I’m serious, though. How _do _you take your eggs?” Billy’s smirking, as if Steve hasn’t _heard_ that one before, hasn’t told that same joke.

Robin immediately pipes up with, “Like a prissy bitch”. Billy raises an eyebrow.

“Is _that_ so,” he coos, repulsively sweet. “King Steve, ladies and gentlemen. Can’t believe you _actually_ have bitches cook for you after a one night stand. Must be quite the royal treatment you’re giving them.”

Steve scoffs at the implication, because it’s too ridiculous to acknowledge with words.

Robin puts her hand on his shoulder, apologetic, and starts untying her apron. He looks at his wristwatch.

It’s _five forty five._

“Just so you know, I would _never_ let anyone cook me my eggs. I have standards you’d only ever _dream_ of meeting,” he’s wiping his hands on his shorts, eyeing the clock.

With a burst of laughter, Billy leans forward.

“God, you’re so _anal_ about the most _random_ shit,” Billy reaches for Steve’s cone and he lets him, feels his face heat up when Billy’s sticky fingers brush his.

“You have ten minutes to fuck off,” Steve warns, and it’s clearly not a threat, not enough heat to back it up and make either of them believe it, but it’s the _truth_, so.

“Offer’s still on the table,” Billy says, reaching out to grab his change from Steve’s fingers. Steve shoves the money in their tip jar, screwing the lid on and turning his back to Billy.

He rounds the corner to the break room, hears Billy protest after him, all like, “_But you didn’t even say Ahoy!_”, as if those two dollars weren’t diligently earned every time Steve _didn’t_ punch Billy today even though he totally wanted to.

Steve locks the freezer, locks the back door, gets his wallet and keys in his pockets and slides across the counter, closes and locks those glass windows, too.

“Smooth,” Dustin says, genuinely, and, God. Steve is _so_ thankful for that kid.

He shoos everyone out of the shop, Robin included, and pulls down the steel roll gate.

When Steve turns back around, Billy’s walking away, followed by four of the little shits.

That leaves him with two.

Steve can barely believe he survived the day.

He drops Will off first, then Dustin, despite his protests of _afterparty, come _on_, grandpa_.

When it’s just him and Robin, she pulls a makeup bag from her backpack, looks at him from the passenger seat all cryptic. “Wanna smoke?”

Steve could _cry_. He loves her _so much_.

They light up and Steve drives around, out to the quarry, then through Loch Nora, opening his window when they’re further away from any neighborhoods so he doesn’t get like, _too high_ or something.

“So what’s the deal with Hargrove? You two gonna bone or what?” Robin asks. She’s sitting cross legged, trying to blow Os.

Steve chokes up, even though he hasn’t even _hit_, takes the joint from her to do just that.

“Not if we were the last people on Earth,” Steve inhales, letting the smoke out when he talks. His voice comes out weirdly full-bodied when he says, “He’s gross, and he _hates_ me, and he’s like, the _straightest_ guy I’ve ever met.”

Robin laughs and laughs and laughs, and Steve pokes her super hard on the ribs but she doesn’t stop, just pokes him right back, even harder.

She has tears in her eyes when she looks at him.

“Yeah, okay, the _only_ straight in Billy Hargrove are his teeth, which he is always” — _poke_ — “flashing” — _poke_ — “_you,_” — _poke_ — Steve bats her hand away.

Whatever.

Billy _is_ the most virulent masculine person Steve has ever seen, has been chasing skirt since he set foot in Hawkins and _still_ hasn’t had his fill, has taken up home-wrecking now, apparently, which is what makes his jesting flirtation so _irritating_, because yeah, Steve fucks guys sometimes, it’s not like he’s just _bluffing_, too.

Besides, he’s sure Tommy H. already gave Billy the whole rundown on all things Steve Harrington, _including_ how he cooks his fucking eggs, so he just doesn’t understand the guy, ultimately.

He probably thinks Steve’s _so_ hilarious, what with his raging bisexuality and ridiculously short temper.

_Fuck_ that.

Steve ends up driving back to Robin‘s house, because she’s relentless and it’s pointless to argue about something that’s never going to _happen_, anyway.

He drops her off, gets home, takes a shower, all his edges pleasantly rounded by the weed, puts on way too much body lotion, and wraps a hand around his dick.

It’s not his fault. Billy Hargrove is an _asshole_. Stomping into Steve’s work, winding him up so fucking _tight_, like it’s _funny_, like he wouldn’t realistically totally do Billy Hargrove if Billy Hargrove wasn’t _Billy Hargrove_.

Steve barely even registers when he comes, is doing it just to try and relax, but _that_ isn’t really on his vocabulary anymore, so he’s still left a terrible taste in his mouth, anyway.

He washes his hands aggressively, gurgles some mouthwash and goes to bed, naked, pissed as _fuck_.

_one._

He’s hanging out with Billy Hargrove again much sooner than he’d ever expected.

They’re sitting on the Wheelers’ basement for D&D night, the game long forgotten in lieu of watching _Cocoon,_ because Mike _finally _rented it and everybody had apparently been waiting for like, two weeks, for _this_.

It’s _depressing_.

Steve’s sitting on the floor, criss-cross applesauce style because there’s _too many people _— even Nancy and Jonathan are there — and the TV isn’t that big and neither is the couch.

He absolutely got tricked into coming, because nobody mentioned that his ex or her boyfriend or his fucking sworn nemesis would be joining them.

He thinks Robin might’ve told him the truth, possibly, but she’s not even _there_, she’s out with that college girl even though she totally shouldn’t be.

He’s pressed between Billy and Dustin and there are so many _curls_ and he just wants to melt into the carpet; maybe Nancy would stomp on him or something.

_She_ is on the couch, her hand on Jonathan’s thigh, whispering shit in his ear and _giggling_.

This summer sucks ass, and it _smells_ like it, right now, too.

“Pretty boy,” Billy rasps in his ear, drags out that last _y_ until Steve _shudders_.

“_What_, you disrespectful asshole?”

“Green’s not a good color on ya,” Billy prods the side of his face, jams a fingertip in the hollow of his cheek.

“Get fucked,” Steve spits at the television, refusing to look at Billy.

Billy snickers, like a_ girl scout_, and retracts his finger.

He turns fully sideways, rear-ending Max to whisper _right_ into the shell of Steve’s ear, like he‘d _care_, hair tickling the side of Steve’s face, “_God_, but she’s so _boring_. This is _so_ _boring_,”

Steve sets his jaw, says through clenched teeth, “So get” — _shove_ — “_fucked_.”

Billy collides with Max again, who shrieks and shoves him right back into Steve.

The basement is _sweltering_, the AC is aimed too high up that it doesn’t hit Steve where he’s sitting at all, and the backs of his knees are getting sweaty. He feels so _gross_.

Not to mention it’s infuriating having to hear Billy complain about how _boring_ Nancy is when the only reason he got _invited_ today was because Mrs. Wheeler ran into him at the pool and told him their plans, saying Billy should _drop by, as well! _

And the fucker actually _did_.

“We _could_. Get fucked _up_,” Billy offers. “Got a joint on me. Some blow in my car, too.”

“_Jesus_,” Steve’s shifting under Billy’s weight, knocking into poor, concentrated Dustin, trying to dissipate some of the unrelenting heat going through him. “I’m not gonna do blow, I’m _babysitting_.”

Someone above Steve’s head shushes them.

Billy’s by his side, _on_ him, flicking the flame of his lighter against the skin of Steve’s neck.

“_Ow_—fuck, Billy!”

“Billy, stop being such a spaz!” Max says like how Steve imagines Susan would, and Billy keeps grinning like he’s five with pigtails and just the cutest thing _ever_.

“Come _on_, Mr. and Mrs. _Boring_ are looking after them. Let me smoke you out.”

“You know, everyone can _hear_ you,” Jonathan talks for like, the first time that night, and his voice has Steve groaning, standing up and yanking Billy to his feet by the wrist.

“I’m gonna go_ kill him_, you keep on watching,” Steve announces to no one in particular and it comes out kind of sad, but _whatever_.

Billy’s acting like he’s already high, leaning into Steve, all pliant and annoying.

Steve’s halfway up the stairs with a wobbly Billy dogging him when he hears a muted, “_Obviously_,” who he thinks was Mike’s, but he can’t be sure.

He gives the steps beneath him the middle finger anyway.

They thankfully don’t run into any more Wheelers as they make their way through the house and then out the front door.

The Camaro is impossible to miss, looking electric blue even in the dead of night.

Billy sees him looking, gives him a wink and steps down into the front lawn.

It’s still stifling but much more bearable, out in the open.

There’s the hint of a breeze, keeping them moving, keeping them breathing.

Steve follows Billy to his car, peeks inside because _hey_, he’s only human.

He retrieves a clear plastic baggie from his glove compartment and locks the door, circling the Camaro to lean against it beside Steve.

They’re facing Maple Street, as dead as anything else in Hawkins, at ten at night. Still, Steve’s heart is beating inexplicably fast, and he _could_ blame it on being in the presence of illegal drugs, but.

It’s not _just_ that.

Billy holds the joint between his teeth, flicking on his lighter and holding it to the opposite end until it sparks to life, cherry red.

He pulls and it crackles and Steve watches.

Billy lets the smoke out through his nose, handing Steve the weed to breach his baggie, carefully pulling a round pill from inside.

He flicks his wrist twice, when he sees Steve looking, inquisitive. “_Chill_, it’s not coke. See? It’s a lude. You ever take one before?”

“Huh?” says Steve, around a mouthful of smoke.

He tends to inhale and then hold the smoke until it starts burning, because that’s how some asshole taught him to do it, a million years ago.

His lungs are on fire when he speaks.

Billy rolls his eyes.

“_Quaaludes_,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Disco biscuits.”

“What the fuck,” Steve pulls again, ignoring Billy’s hand that’s reaching for the joint. “People still _take_ those?”

“_Cool_ people do,” Billy swings for the weed and Steve retreats, like a ninja. Billy pops the pill in his mouth, instead, chewing it, rolling his eyes at Steve _again_, all like, “It’s _fine_, you can take half, it’ll make you feel alright. _Relaxed_.”

“Fine, _Frankie_, I can — Can I like, drive and stuff?” It’s not like he’s not _intrigued_. Billy grins.

“I don’t know, _can_ you?”

“Okay, _fuck_ you,” Steve takes another hit of the joint.

It’s not lost on him that he’s getting too high too fast _just_ to be petty, but.

“_No_, okay, _look_,” Billy reaches out to grab at Steve’s shoulder. He falters a little as he takes the step forward, settles back, closer. Billy seems so loose, _happy_, and Steve is _jealous_. “Yes. _Yes_, you can drive. Like an _adult_.”

“Oh my God, you have to let that _go_,” Steve extends the joint.

Billy doesn’t take it, though, just leans down casually, puts his lips around it, where Steve’s were a _second_ ago, and sucks, igniting the end and lighting his face up, orange and pink.

They don’t stop looking into each other’s eyes; Billy’s are almost all black, now.

“Can’t. Not until you let me _prove you wrong,_” Billy puts another pill in between his teeth, bites down, cracks it in half — roughly.

He puts the bigger chunk on Steve’s still outstretched palm, plucks the joint from between Steve’s index and middle finger before he drops _one_ of their _drugs_, the way he totally might have.

“Come on, man, don’t be gross,” Steve examines the piece in his hand, rolls it back and forth with his thumb.

It’s _tiny_.

It won’t do_ too much_ damage.

Billy looks so _happy_.

“I didn’t mean _that_,” Billy says, sight skyward, and Steve huffs. “I _meant_ I can cook you under the fucking table, Harrington.”

“_Please_, that—doesn’t even make _sense_. _No_, you can’t,” Steve’s high, he’s so high, and he’s about to pop a pill with Billy on game night. He’s going to _die_.

_Billy Hargrove with a Quaalude in the driveway. _

Sounds menacing.

“‘Course I can. _Especially_ if I had all _your_ fancy kitchen shit, you’d be on your knees _begging_ to blow me ’cause of my eggs,” Billy’s breathing out, sounding excited.

Steve can’t help it, he’s _really_ high, and it’s _kind_ of funny, so he laughs, hitting his head on the Camaro _hard_, twice, but it doesn’t even hurt.

He pockets the half-pill.

He’s probably _good_, already.

“I’d let you, you know,” Steve says with his head back, heavy against tin, eyelids droopy and lazy. Billy stares back at him.

“Let me what,” it’s soft, barely a question, no inflection at all, really, when Billy asks.

“Use all my fancy kitchen shit. To like, level the playing field.”

Billy’s shoulders drop on a sigh and he slants, body dropping next to Steve’s.

His head tips back and lolls sideways, _staring_, with a stupid smile that Steve _knows_ he can’t fight. “Yeah?”

It’s so dry when Steve swallows, and there doesn’t seem to be a breeze anymore, it’s just hot where they stand against Billy’s car, under the cone of a streetlight.

“Yeah. Let you use my mom’s 10-inch Le Creuset and all.”

“What the fuck is that, a sex toy?”

“Oh my god, _no_,” Steve manages in between damp breaths, because Billy is making him cry-laugh and he can’t catch his fucking _breath_, it’s too _hot_. “It’s a skillet, you big asshole.”

Billy laughs beautifully.

Steve just wants to keep feeling floaty and bellyache-y and strung out, stuck in this space forever.

They’re really close now, breathing in each other’s faces, and it’s suffocating, but Steve doesn’t move.

“D’you take it?” Billy says, tucking a strand of hair behind Steve’s ear. Steve doesn’t _move_.

“Take what?”

“The _pill_, dumbass.” _Oh_.

“Oh. Yeah, no. I didn’t.”

Billy smiles — flashes him his teeth — and Steve can’t decide if it’s genuine or predatory or just really fucking nice.

“_Pussy_,” he whispers and they’re so close Steve feels the puff of air that leaves Billy’s lips at the word, tickling his nose.

It smells like mint and weed and medicine.

“Do you use Marvis?” Steve asks, uncontrollably loud, not managing to make it sound like a question at all. “You have, like. A super white smile.”

Billy scans his face and stares at his lips, like maybe he’s thinking about _Steve’s_ smile, or like maybe that’s not it at all.

He fists the front of Steve’s shirt and jerks him a little, only to push his body back into the Camaro, forcefully.

Steve must look hilarious to Billy, right now, just real amusing, wide eyed, off-guard, halfway to hard in his pants.

It’s fucking _heady_, the weather, the drugs, the lack of goddamn _distance _between them.

And apparently Billy agrees, because he relents his grip soon enough, smoothing out Steve’s polo, and spitting, “I use _Colgate_. Like a _broke_ _person_,” with a final shove to Steve’s chest.

Steve’s resigned to his spot against Billy’s driver side door, head whipping back so fast it makes him dizzy, watching Billy disappear into the Wheelers’ residence.

_He's fucked_.

On that note, he reaches into his pants, readjusts himself, then reaches into his _pocket_ and retrieves the Quaalude, pops it in his mouth, grinds it into a bitter powder.

Steve pushes it around and waits until it’s all dissolved before he makes his way back into the house, trying to seem unfazed.

_Not_ like he just had a totally weird smoke session with Billy Hargrove featuring violent homoerotic undertones and misuse of prescription drugs.

Silently, as he cuts through the kitchen, he curses Karen Wheeler for inviting Billy tonight, another fabulous antic in her ongoing history of ruining Steve’s life.

Steve sticks a finger right in the middle of her cream pie that’s sitting on the counter, cooling, because he _can_.

He feels a little bad, then, because like, it’s not her fault Steve got cheated on, and it’s not her fault she craves Billy’s attention constantly, but it’s _also_ not like Ted and Nancy are baking _their_ own pies for Steve to stick a finger into, _so_.

Steve walks down the stairs, weak-kneed, and plops himself down on his previous spot.

He hears some light snoring, doesn’t really register anything, just that Billy already has his head slotted in the crook of Steve’s neck, annoying as ever.

He wipes his pie-slick finger against Billy’s lips, and it’s disgusting, and it’s also hilarious, and it’s also cathartic.

It _feels_ a little bit like revenge, and so Steve lets the guy plant his forehead on the meat of his shoulder.

He falls asleep like that, on the floor of the Wheelers’ basement, spine bent at a terrible angle, listening to too many _people_ _sounds_ for it to be comforting.

It’s six in the morning when Steve wakes up, and he’s alone.

Somebody has moved him down onto his back, there’s a blanket around his ankles and his nose is stuffy from the dust and the AC.

But, despite all of that, last night was the best sleep he’s had in _ages_, so he can’t really stay _mad_ at Billy, can he?

_two._

It’s Friday night and King Steve reigns no longer, is actually sitting on his bedroom floor, almost drunk, in terrible fucking company.

He had a long day at the pool, babysitting the kids but mostly Dustin, because Mrs. Henderson pays him occasionally and, besides Lucas, the other boys have older siblings they can blame for not looking after them.

Also because he does_ not _trust Billy_ or _Heather, who is totally cute but dumber than _him_, which is saying something.

So Steve had to stay there, under the hot sun, until closing time, when, with a rolled up beach towel under his armpit, Billy Hargrove walked up to him and asked him for a ride home.

They’d been in the car for less than five minutes when he said, _Actually, you got any plans, tonight? Had a bitch cancel on me ‘cause of her period_.

And because he doesn’t love himself, Steve said _No_, and ignored Dustin’s glare in the backseat, and brought Billy into his house, and watched as Billy took some ice cream from the freezer and some whiskey from the pantry and joked, _Show me where the magic happens. _

So. Long story short.

It’s Friday night and Billy Hargrove is sitting on his bedroom floor.

Right this moment, he’s leaning forward, red shorts taut around his thighs, and dipping his spoon in Steve’s ice cream one more time.

It’s partially liquid by now, the stuffy bedroom and yellowing lights making _everything_ sweat down to puddles.

Billy’s telling him _something_, and the ice cream keeps melting, suspended halfway between his lips and the pint.

A little drop falls on Steve’s thigh, followed by a big drop.

“_Fuck_—my bad,” Billy shoves the spoon in his mouth, the concave part cupping his tongue, and wipes the ice cream away from Steve’s leg with his thumb.

It’s quick and searing; they touch for a second and then the drops are gone, just as fast as they had gotten there.

Their eyes meet and Steve flinches, like, “Billy, _don’t_,” because as much as he hates it, he kind of _knows_ Billy.

But it’s too late, Billy’s sucking his thumb between his curled up lips, going back to swipe again at Steve’s skin, like for a moment the gesture could be friendly and caring, instead of caustic and provocative, like Billy’s gestures always are.

Steve’s thigh is still wet.

It’s a new small, sticky patch and it mainly came from _Billy Hargrove’s_ _mouth_.

His door is closed. His windows are closed. His AC is off.

Steve feels like he’s _dissolving_ under Billy’s unrelenting, indecipherable gaze, and panic bubbles up in his chest at how volatile the whole situation is.

_Like_, from where Steve’s standing, it could go either way, and it _has_ to go one of two ways, because this tension between them has been building since _November_, when Billy got his first fix, so he begs his pliant body to just brace for whatever Billy wants to give him.

A kiss, a fist.

It could _literally_ go either way.

Billy closes his knuckles around Steve’s ankle, fingertips brushing the carpet where the back of his foot is planted.

Steve has his other leg folded under himself, and he can feel it begin to fall asleep, but he can’t manage a reaction, just breathes out, “_Gross_,” barely audible, barely means it.

“S’just ice cream,” Billy slurs with a shrug, picking up the uncapped Jack and taking a long swig.

Steve watches his throat work, glistening, golden.

Billy stops touching him to fist both his hands in the hem of his own shirt, pulling it up over his head and going, “Why’s it so fucking hot in here?”

“My, uh.” Steve swallows, dry, fingers itching for the bottle, something to help his words come out. He tries again. “My AC broke down.”

“That’s shitty. Take your shirt off,” Billy says, as if Steve was the one _bitching_ about the heat, and digs back into the pint of French Vanilla.

“I’m not hot,” Steve lies; Billy scoffs.

“You’re _really_ not, Harrington.”

“Fuck you. I’ll, like, open the window,” Steve gets up, does just that, misses whatever response Billy gave because his ears are nothing but two loud pulses, bloodstream thundering, and he just really hates the heat, too.

He can’t _breathe_ right.

He settles back down on the floor, across from Billy, carpet prickling the backs of his legs.

“Do you think that like, whiskey and ice cream go together, or am I just _fucked up _right now?” Billy asks in such an uncharacteristic voice, juvenile and maudlin.

For a second Steve can place Billy in all the sleepovers he ever had with Tommy, can picture them shooting hoops in his driveway until the sun goes down, and it’s like he was always there.

Billy is overwhelming.

It’s suddenly so very hard to imagine a life before him.

Like. Why does Steve even _put up _with him if not for the sake of a cherished friendship?

“I don’t know. Maybe. Kinda like a Frozen Mudslide?”

Billy only hesitates for a moment, only _thinks_ for a moment before he’s sitting up on his knees, unsteady, one hand on Steve’s shoulder and the other back at his ankle.

His touch feels omnipresent, like he’s trying to cover the whole expanse of Steve’s body, from his chest to his toes, trying to fit it all in two hands.

Steve drags the Jack Daniels to himself, clutches it in his palm. He can kind of guess what’s going to happen next.

“Wanna find out?” Steve suggests, pretending he doesn’t know the answer.

Billy smiles at him like he _likes_ him, and it makes the room impossibly warmer.

“Yes, I motherfucking _do_.”

He snatches the bottle from Steve, letting go of him and taking the spoon that’s spearing the ice cream, slanted on the few solid parts left.

Billy scoops some of it up, looks at Steve pointedly. “Tilt your head back.”

Steve does. Stares at his spinning ceiling, lets his jaw weigh, open.

Billy slots his palm on the curve of his neck, fingers digging into the muscles behind it.

With his other hand, he unceremoniously tips the spoon sideways over Steve’s open mouth, lets the ice cream plop down on his warm tongue.

_Don’t swallow_, comes another instruction, this time from miles away, but Steve obeys nonetheless.

There’s vanilla ice cream running down his throat, and it’s the most uncomfortable thing ever, until Billy’s gripping his chin and angling the bottle of whiskey between his lips, and then _that’s_ the most uncomfortable thing ever.

The too-sweet mixture stays in Steve’s mouth for about two seconds before he’s sputtering around it, trying to swallow it down.

He gasps a little bit, head falling forward to look at Billy, who’s already looking right back.

He’s no_ keg king_ anymore, but Steve can take a _shot_, for Christ’s sake.

That was _embarrassing_.

Billy goes, “_Shit_, Harrington,” reaches out for the Jack, falters. “Good?”

He shrugs.

“Yeah. Kinda tastes like root beer. Did you wanna…?” he gestures vaguely at the bottle and the pint, the pint and the bottle.

Has to remember the instructions for a second, process them. _Tilt your head back; don’t swallow; shit, Harrington._

“Uh. No, I—I wanna do you first,” not first, _again_, Steve thinks, but doesn’t say it. “Gotta make sure you’re not _fucking _with me.”

“Man, you overestimate my dedication,” Steve’s pushing damp strands of hair up, away from his forehead.

“What?” Billy asks, gripping the whiskey.

Steve ignores him. “Do the ice cream first,”

Billy grumbles, gives up the bottle to sloppily dig around in the pint with the spoon before he forgoes it, brings the whole thing up to Steve’s mouth and upends it.

Steve makes a _noise_, exasperated, jaw jutted to keep it all in, but there’s ice cream trickling down to his fucking _collarbones_, so he snatches the bottle from Billy and chugs, sucking on the rim.

It’s better this time, actually doesn’t taste half bad, but Steve’s sticking all over because Billy’s a slob, and he’s just not about that life, so he shoves Billy, anyway.

Billy laughs.

“Motherfucker, you’re so _chaotic_. _Look_, there’s, like, _no_ ice cream left for you, now,” Steve says, showing Billy the pint, like a _mom_, but _whatever_, because he’s _right_.

Billy just stares.

Steve snaps, mean, sardonic, “_What_? Got something on my face?”

Billy stares for another minute.

Then another.

_Then_ he jerks forward, Steve’s raised knee digging into his chest, and shoves four fingers into the neckline of Steve’s shirt, pulling it down.

He slips his hand in and leans to mouth at Steve’s throat, tongue flat against his skin, licking a streak of ice cream from the dip between his clavicles, lips bumping over his Adam’s apple, all the way up to his chin.

When he’s done with that, Billy moves on to _another_ spot, chases a line of melted vanilla up the column of Steve’s neck.

The hand that’s not under Steve’s shirt sits at the base of his throat, just resting.

His breath is cool where Steve’s skin is damp, and that makes him shiver ridiculously, like a fucking _virgin_, which, well.

Steve _is_ chubbing up, trying not to do anything about it, head tilted back again, as if there’s any way he’s gonna get blood rushing up there.

There’s_ nothing _inside, anyway.

He’s going all like, “_Hargrove_,” in this voice he doesn’t even recognize.

Steve reaches out to fist Billy’s shirt, realizes he isn’t _wearing_ one, tries to pull him in by his flexed elbows, then, and Billy does go, but not where Steve _wants_.

He _instead_ throws all his weight into Steve, just fucking _slams_ him with his upper body and puts a hand next to Steve’s hip, caging him in, burying his face below Steve’s ear and _licking_.

Steve tries again, “_Billy_,” and it’s right in _Billy’s_ ear, because there’s no way it could _not_ be, and he tilts his head sideways, looks at Steve like they're totally on the same page, which Steve seriously doubts.

Like,_ sure_, they got drunk and hard together, but Steve _likes_ dudes, and Billy’s an _asshole_, so maybe he’s just fucking with Steve, but maybe he just wants to get his rocks off, which Steve is _absolutely _on the same page with, so.

Steve coaxes Billy off of him by the hair, hears his grunt of protest for one second before he stifles it, and Steve doesn’t look, but he _knows_ Billy’s rolling his eyes.

“What, you a fucking prude now, Harrington?”

“Oh my God, you are so fucking aggravating, just—“

“Bitch? _I’m_ agra—“

“_Just_—come_ here_,” Steve pulls him back in, puts a hand on his cheek, and slots their mouths together.

Billy's still, and he’s _never_ still, and so Steve is terrified for a split second, but then he’s kissing Steve _back_, tongue curling viciously around his, and.

Steve opens his legs, gets them on either side of Billy’s and feels a smirk against his lips, like Billy’s not _just_ as eager as Steve, which he totally is, because the next second Billy’s pushing him onto his back and crawling on top of him, knees knocking into his.

They start rutting against each other, like, _immediately_, open mouths crushed together, Billy’s teeth grazing the back of his bottom lip.

The situation is fucking galvanizing, any and all logic completely mollified.

It has Steve spreading as wide as he can to get Billy’s hip flush against his, to fuck up against his cock, nice and sharp.

“I’m so fucking hard it _hurts_,” he plants his forehead on Steve’s and looks down at where their bodies keep meeting, grunting into Steve’s open mouth like he’s _surprised_ by what he finds there.

Steve pets Billy, fingers stroking his flank, like, “Please, don’t stop,” low and pathetic, because it looks a lot like Billy just realized what exactly the fuck they’re doing, and is rethinking the whole thing.

Billy’s eyes shoot back up to his.

“_Harrington_. So needy.”

“God, shut _up_. Just _shut up_.”

Steve’s not needy, he’s fucking _desperate_.

“_Make _me,” and Billy doesn’t even wait for his own provocation before he dives back in to taste Steve’s mouth again.

It’s sticky and slippery and a little bit gross, but that’s also pretty much _all_ sex Steve’s ever had, and it’s so goddamn _hot_ he can’t bring himself to argue, just sucks on Billy’s tongue, instead.

Feels his cock drag against Billy’s, smells his sunscreen, savors his salty skin, listens to his pants and hears _pleas_.

He’s going to fucking _cream his pants _for Billy Hargrove.

It feels so juvenile, grinding against a body on his bedroom floor, broken-off gasps reverberating in each other’s mouths.

It’s _amazing_, too, fills him up with life that’s been lacking, lately, fills him up the way a _fight_ can, pumping adrenaline into his veins.

And, honestly? This isn’t _that_ different from fighting Billy.

“Fuck. I’m _close_.”

“Yeah, me too,” Billy eats the words right out of Steve’s mouth, licks into it like he’s placing them back on his tongue.

Billy pushes his shirt up, kneads at his chest, feathering the dark wisps of hair there. He rolls a finger over Steve’s nipple, tentatively.

Steve takes a big breath, feels temporarily lightheaded before he can fuck up against Billy harder. He laughs, once, like he’s dazzled by the reaction he got.

“Damn, King Steve,” and Steve braces himself for the mockery, that familiar sting of shame he feels when he’s talking to his parents or reading another rejection letter or getting dumped. But what comes next is small, quiet, confessional. “You’re gonna make me lose my mind.”

Steve can feel it building, feel his lungs stretch impossibly tight as he takes longer and longer to fill them, every breath being punched out of his gut.

Billy keeps rubbing at him, starts _pinching_, and the look on his face is priceless, like he’s doing it to have fun, to entertain himself, almost like he’s forgotten there’s someone else there with him _actually_ getting off on having his nipple tweaked, and most importantly, that that person is _Steve_.

He comes with a cry, arching into Billy’s touch, grabbing the back of his head to lock their mouths together.

He whines when Billy breaks the kiss, still riding the aftershocks, still desperate for closeness.

“Fuck. _Fuck_, I’m gonna come.”

Steve’s like, “Yeah?” because he’s still kind of drunk and pretty well fucked out, and he’s always _stupid_, so.

Billy groans.

“Yeah, _fuck_, baby, you're so _fucking_ good.”

Billy sounds like he’s talking to a _chick_, as if the velvety tone of his voice is second nature now, employed whenever he’s on the brink of an orgasm.

Steve _gets_ it, like.

He doesn’t expect Billy to adjust that for him.

At the same time, it’s not like Billy _wouldn’t_ waltz into Scoops Ahoy and totally call Steve _baby_, tell him how good he is, and blatantly hit on him, even if he doesn’t _mean_ it.

He sucks Steve’s bottom lip into his mouth, and he doesn’t stop sucking until Steve feels it fatten up, and then Billy’s coming, thighs shaking and warmth covering both their cocks.

With a sigh Billy slides against him one more time, earning a shudder of sensitivity from Steve, and pulls away.

There’s a string of saliva and a little bit of blood linking them together, for a second.

It breaks on Steve’s chest, darkening his shirt.

It’s too quiet, all of a sudden.

The record is emitting a static sound from where it keeps rotating.

There’s no one in the streets right now.

They breathe heavy, filling up the musty air with carbon dioxide and faint noise.

The Indiana heat is not that humid.

It’s never _this_ oppressive, usually a cold front will rush in from like, _Canada_ or something, sometimes even on the first week of summer, and bring the temperature down.

Right _now_, though, it’s the hottest Steve has ever been, feels his skin throb all over, feels his heartbeat in his gums.

Billy rolls off of him quick, shoots to his feet, begins running his hands up into hair, starting at his forehead.

He crouches down to reach for the Jack Daniels, eyes darting over to meet Steve’s briefly, like, _what are you looking at. _

Steve sits up into Billy’s personal space. Feels tension build again as Billy drinks from the bottle, unflinching.

Steve smells the whiskey, smells sweat, chlorine and sex.

He wonders, briefly, if Billy and Heather ever fuck around in the showers. If they do, maybe it smells like this, too. Well, except the whiskey; that’s his dad’s.

“_Jesus_, Harrington,” he’s scoffing, low, like he can’t _believe_ what Steve just did. When he gets nothing in response, Billy huffs, walks out his door, disappears down his hall.

Steve guesses he’s heading for the bathroom, so Steve walks out his door, disappears down his hall, and heads for the opposite direction, towards the staircase.

He feels fucking sick, thinks about that ice cream and wants to _vomit_.

Steve goes downstairs, then into the kitchen.

Drinks a glass of water.

Drinks two.

Hears the toilet flush upstairs, hears the sink working.

Hears Billy’s feet on the steps. Feels it reverberate in his own spine, echoing.

Hears the front door open, then close.

Drinks another glass of water.

Waits until his stomach is settled enough to take more alcohol.

He should eat something, and he should sleep, but he knows he won’t, so he just makes his way back to his room, flips his record over, swills some whiskey and tosses Billy’s forgotten shirt into his laundry pile.

_three._

“I think I’m in love,” Robin says, fishing a maraschino cherry from the bowl. She pops it in her mouth, looking at Steve expectantly.

“You say that all the time.”

“It’s true, now! Steve, it’s _so_ real.”

It’s _also_ eight in the morning.

Robin scoops some ice cream and dumps it inside the blender, pours some milk, squirts a hefty serving of chocolate syrup on top and blends it all together.

“Well, at least this one likes girls, too. And you’ve actually _talked_, so.”

“Oh, fuck you. At least I’m trying, when’s the last time _you_ got any?”

That’s easy to answer, _finally_, but.

Steve didn’t tell Robin about Billy.

“That’s _irrelevant_,” is what he settles on, and it’s shitty, but enough to get her off his back.

Robin serves the milkshake in a thick glass tumbler, tops it with whipped cream, offers Steve whatever’s left of it in the blender.

He shakes his head.

“I don’t know how you can still eat ice cream. _Especially_ for breakfast.”

She shrugs, “It’s the most important meal of the day. I’m _carb loading_.”

“For _what_, band practice?”

“_Bitch_, no. I got a date tonight.”

And like.

_Great_, that’s _awesome_, Steve’s happy for her, never mind that her date is in college and from actual _England_, which equals total heartbreak material, but that’s not Steve’s problem, so.

He’s not going to risk looking bitter and _telling_ Robin that.

“Be careful. She might sell you into human trafficking.”

Robin rolls her eyes, slurps on her straw. “You watch too much _television_.”

“You don’t even _know_ her,” he argues, but she just dismisses him.

Well. He tried to warn her.

“Oh, by the way, I’m telling my parents that I’m hanging out with you tonight, okay? So if they call, just say I’m sleeping or something,” she’s drinking the rest of the milkshake now.

That gets Steve _wondering_.

“Do you think they think we fuck?”

Robin looks at him from under her creased eyebrows.

“_No_. God, I hope not.”

“_Billy_ thinks we fuck. He said so when he was here, the other day.”

“_Who cares _what that asshole thinks. He’s just trying to get under your skin.”

Yeah, _trying_. As if Steve ever stood a goddamn _chance_.

Robin slides the bunch of keys on the table towards him, announcing, “I gotta brush my teeth, can you open up? I think there’s already someone at the door.”

She’s fucking _gone_ by the time Steve peers out the window in their break room and sees his first customer of the day.

He sighs, exasperated, all like, “Why the _fuck_ is he here? The kid is _diabetic_, for Christ’s sake,” to no one in particular.

Steve opens the store, even though they technically didn’t have to for another _ten minutes,_ and waits for the little boy to decide which flavor of ice cream he’s going to _poison_ himself with today.

When his mom finally sits down at a table, Steve hands him the cone, going, “Look. If you barf again, dude, we’re gonna have to ban you from Scoops Ahoy.”

“What? Who said that?”

“_I_ said that.”

“But you’re not the manager.”

Steve wants to _die_.

“Yeah, well, I’ve got authority, so. How come your mom lets you eat that shit, anyway?”

The kid shrugs.

“Her and dad are going through a _divorce_,” he says the word like he’s practiced it in front of a mirror, formal and foreign. “She wants to cheer me up.”

Fuck.

Steve is astronomically stupid.

He should be studied by like, NASA, or something.

He’s an aberration of natural selection.

“Uh. You know what, man? Why don’t you, uh. Why don’t you keep your money, okay? This one’s on the house.”

It’s around one thirty when Robin calls out for Steve, telling him his children are there. He’s in the back, refilling the napkin holders.

Steve shouldn’t be surprised, and he’s _not_, exactly, but admittedly, when he steps in next to Robin behind the counter, it’s not the children he was _expecting_ to see.

“Oh, hey, guys,” he says, even though the two kids standing in front of him are _girls_, but. They’re cool, so it’s whatever. “Where’s the rest of the knuckleheads?”

“We _ditched_ them,” Max says, puffing her chest slightly. “Boys are _so_ immature.”

“Yeah, _so_ immature,” the other girl, Eleven, echoes Max down to the intonation.

It’s kind of unsettling, if Steve’s being honest.

“_Right_, so. Uh, what can I get you two?”

They share a look, as if Steve’s supposed to _know_ what they want.

“One strawberry and one vanilla. Extra whipped cream.”

Steve shudders when he reaches into the glass case.

It puts a twist in his stomach he thinks will stay until the end of his shift, until he can go home and get absolutely plastered by himself.

He has to take the cones all the way over to where they’re sitting, because they didn’t wait for him, because they didn’t _pay_, so that’s fun.

“Here you go. _Enjoy_.”

“Don’t you mean, _Ahoy_?”

Steve stares at that tiny redhead, a little incredulously. “Sure you and Billy are not related _at_ _all_?”

Max laughs, heartily, and Eleven follows.

“Sit with us, Steve,” Max orders, like a mob boss.

Steve sits with them.

“So then I was like, _Lucas, you can’t say Jennifer Hayes is the prettiest girl in our grade if you’re dating _me, and he’s like, _But you don’t even count, you’re in the Party! _and I was so pissed, so I rode my skateboard right over his toes, and I _dumped_ his ass,” Max says to El, very obviously continuing a conversation Steve had not been involved in, so he gets up surreptitiously, takes about a step and a half before Max grabs his arm. “Hello? I was _talking_ to you.”

“_No_, you were talking to your friend,” he motions to El, who’s just staring at him. “_I_ have nothing to do with this.”

She scoffs. “Yes, you _do_! Those losers look _up_ to you, God knows why, and you’re a _boy_, so you _know_ what I mean when I say they’re dumb!”

“I thought they were immature?”

“That, too,” El clarifies.

“Alright, listen,” Steve’s sitting back down, still debating between engaging in girl talk or going back to stocking paper napkins. “I can’t help you with this crap. Sure, I’m a _guy_, but I’m not a _nerd_, so I don’t _understand_ them, _or_ what they say, _or_ what they do. Okay?”

“_God_,” Max sighs, dramatic. “You’re even worse than Billy.”

“Okay, _no_, I am _not_ worse than _Billy Hargrove_. There _is_ no ’worse than Billy Hargrove’.”

“Uh, except you _are_, because _Billy_, who doesn’t even _like_ me, always takes _my_ side!”

Steve doesn’t understand what’s going on in the slightest, and he really doesn’t want to be talking about _boy problems_ with two thirteen-year-olds, really hates that this is his life, but.

God damn it, now he just _has_ to see this through.

“He likes you,” he tries, but it’s the wrong answer, _obviously_, not the _point_.

“Steve, you are so _frustrating_,” Max rolls her eyes; they widen once they land on the wall clock. “Shit, we gotta go. The next bus is at like, two-fifteen.”

“Two-one-five?” El’s letting Max grab her by the hand, pull her gently up to her feet.

“Yeah, El. Two-one-five. Look, I’m gonna let _them_ know we’re leaving, okay? Stay here for a second.”

And so Max leaves Steve alone with Eleven, stomping off to find her boyfriend — ex-boyfriend?

Steve doesn’t _care_, God.

“So, uh.”

“He likes _you_,” El says, immediately after his eloquent interjection.

“Who?”

“_Billy_.”

Steve laughs.

He doesn’t mean to make her feel bad or anything, that’s not it, but. Jesus.

She really has _no_ clue how human relationships _work_.

“Yeah, _no_, he doesn’t. He _hates_ me, actually, so… Yeah.”

She rolls her eyes, ever so serious. Steve thinks she’s more of an adult then _him_, sometimes, with the way she talks, like every single thing _matters_ too much.

“He _likes_ you.”

“Look, no offense, but, like. That’s _crazy_.”

“They _say _it makes you crazy.”

_You’re gonna make me lose my mind. _

“Who says what makes you crazy?”

She rolls her eyes, again.

Max bursts back into Scoops Ahoy, pale face a little flushed.

“They’re not coming. I mean, they’re coming, but they’re riding their _bikes_ there, so.”

“Where are you guys going?” Steve asks, like a lame, lonely son of a bitch.

“The arcade.”

“Billy’s grounded, so he has to pick me up as _late_ as I _want_,” Max smiles, switching cones with El.

“Why’s he grounded?”

She shrugs. “He’s _insane_. He bought, like, _five dozen eggs_, and made a huge mess in mom’s kitchen. When I asked, he said he wanted to be the next _Julia_ _Child_, so,” Max raises her middle finger, “_screw_ him.”

“Yeah, _screw_ him,” El goes.

And, “Yeah.” Steve can get behind that.

Max looks appeased, which is good, and El looks. Well, she looks how she _always_ does.

“Come on, El, let’s go. Thanks for the ice cream, Steve!” she’s yanking her friend, heading towards the door.

“Yeah, thanks.”

Steve just gives a two-finger wave, watches them turn right and out of his sight.

It’s all he can really do, at this point, so goddamn close to finishing a shift without any weird shit happening to him.

A guy can only _dream_.

He manages to get home by six, which is alright.

Eats some peanut butter straight from the jar, takes a magazine from the file cabinet in his dad’s study and goes up to his room, opening the windows to let some sunshine in.

He basks in the light, shirtless and belly up on his bed, guzzling some White Zin.

It’s Monday.

Steve was supposed to do _something_, today, and he’s pretty sure it entailed getting _out _of the house, but that proves to be incredibly difficult, because once the sun starts to set, casting everything in orange and gold, he notices he’s getting wine drunk.

And, well.

He fucking _loves_ getting wine drunk, so it’s too damn easy to stay right where he is, flip through the stupid magazine, maybe maul his dick a little bit, because Steve gets kind of _slutty_ when he has wine.

He remembers how much Nancy used to hate that.

Remembers Christmas of ‘83, how he had supper with her family, how Jonathan showed up, how Steve drank a whole bottle of Beaujolais by himself and how he fucked Nancy on the dinner table, after: quiet, implacable, greedy.

How she had dropped down gingerly onto her feet once he was finished with a hand cupped between her thighs and called him _an idiot, Steve Harrington, someone could’ve _caught_ us_.

He’d made her come twice that night.

And he fucking _misses _that.

Not Nancy, necessarily, because, well. _That_ had been a shit show.

But he misses the intimacy. He misses sex with deep, meaningful stares, tightly laced fingers, enthusing_ I love you_s every five minutes.

Not that he has anything, anything at all to work with, nowadays.

Steve realizes he drifted off to sleep with a hand shoved under the stupid Scoops Ahoy uniform and his sunglasses still on his face when he wakes up at four in the morning to the sound of screeching tires right below his bedroom window.

There’s the sound of a car door banging shut, and then, the sound of high heels punishing the wood in his foyer.

It’s the sound of the vacuum cleaner that does it, for him, ruins any chance of getting back to sleep.

Steve makes his way down the stairs, blinking away his exhaustion, finds his mom in full makeup and Christian Louboutins cleaning the living room carpet.

“Good morning, baby!” she greets when she notices him, turning the appendage off to go kiss him on the cheek.

“‘Morning,” he says, even though it’s still dark outside and they both know it’s not actually morning for either of them. “Where’s dad?”

His mother huffs, points to her suitcase, toppled over and wide open on the floor.

“_Detroit_, where else?” That’s news to him, actually. “Got on my last nerve, my very _last_, Stevie. I swear to _God_.”

“Yeah, uh,” he doesn’t know what to say except _Please, don’t vacuum before eight or the neighbors will call the cops on us again_. “Screw him.”

“Steve!” she reprimands, but there’s laughter there. She turns to him, like, “Why don’t you go back to sleep? It’s too early, and you’re still _growing_.”

He’s really, _really_ not, but.

He’s also not passing up an opportunity to _not_ talk to his mother, so.

“Okay, mom.”

“And when you wake up again, I’ll make your favorite,” she thumbs some lipstick from the side of his face. “Do we have tomatoes?”

Steve shrugs. He doesn’t know.

He hasn’t gone grocery shopping in, like, _two weeks,_ ran out of vegetables a whole month ago.

“I’m going now, okay?”

She eyes him. “Going where?”

He’s about to answer, _To sleep_, but she’s already got her back turned to him, a perfectly manicured finger flicking the switch on the vacuum cleaner, so he just makes his way back upstairs, shuts the door, and sandwiches his head between two pillows.

The next time he wakes up, it’s a quarter past nine.

There’s a storm brewing up high, grey clouds blocking the sun.

That makes him remember._ His mom is back in town._

It’s a funny thought, and like most, it’s a stupid thought, but it still makes him feel a little guilty, so he drags himself down the stairs, has every intention of offering to help her cook or whatever it is she wants to do, even grabs a headband to keep his hair out of the way, but.

Then he finds her on the kitchen floor, wearing big, black sunglasses, mascara streaks so dark on her cheek they make it look like the lenses are melting.

She’s cradling a bottle of wine in one hand, legs outstretched in front of her and ankles crossed, red soles in a vee.

On the other, a cigarette burns between two fingers, almost all ash, almost all filter.

“Mom?”

It’s not scary, not really.

He’s seen her like this before, _prefers_ it, even, over the impassive blasé approach his dad has.

He likes that his mom can be honest with him, but Steve also thinks that, like.

If people can’t help you? Don’t tell them your shit.

“Steve. Your father…” she swirls the wine, looking like she’s searching for the right word to say. “... _sucks_.”

Steve lets out a laugh as he walks over to her. He sits down close, holding his knees to his chest.

“He does, doesn’t he?”

“He, uh,” she drops her voice down to a whisper. “He has _another woman_.”

“I know, mom.” 

She sobs a little more, then.

“We—oh, _God_. We raised you fine, didn’t we? You’re _fine_, aren’t you, baby?”

Fine.

There’s probably many meanings in _fine_.

There’s probably _not_ many sleepless nights, pre-cooked meals, rejection letters and alcohol bottles in _fine_.

But Steve thinks he can still fit in there, somewhere. Because he’s hopeful. Because he’s stupid.

So.

Yeah.

“Yeah. _Yeah_, I’m fine. Are _you_ fine?”

She eyes him, all like, “I _will_ be.”

Steve takes a deep breath.

Plucks the cigarette butt from her fingers, lights a new one and hands it over after taking a drag.

“Are you going to leave him?”

“Leave who?”

“My dad.”

She laughs like it’s the most outlandish thing she’s ever heard, like she’s never _considered_ it.

“_No_, baby. You don’t have to worry about that.”

As if the fact that she’s staying is more worrying than the prospect of her leaving.

_Jesus_.

Everyone around him has gone _insane_.

“I don’t—I mean. Why _not_?”

“_Why_,” she imitates him. “Because I love him.”

And well, shit.

_Steve_ could’ve told her that.

Which is something he like, _gets_, by the way, so he’s not judging her, or anything.

But. God_damn_.

Doesn’t she love _herself_?

“I’m not weak, you know,” his mom pipes up, folding the freshly done laundry.

He’s sitting on the washing tank, watching, has been dogging her ever since earlier.

She’s mostly sober now, though, so he might stop, because it’s making him a little woozy, if he’s honest.

“I _do_ know that. I don’t think you’re weak.”

“_Good_. I’m not. You gotta stand by your man, you know, Stevie?”

His dad is a shitty husband.

Steve was a shitty boyfriend.

He _doesn’t_ really know what to expect from a _good_ relationship, so. Maybe that’s true.

_You gotta stand by your man_, cheater or not.

And what’s funny is that Steve wasn’t even the one who cheated in _his _relationship.

Or. That didn’t really count, right?

Is it still cheating if you didn't love them?

“I mean. You don’t _gotta_, but. Okay.”

She turns to him.

She’s changed into jeans and a T-shirt with splatters of color all over because she used to wear it for painting. Steve likes the look. 

“What about you? How’s your heart?” and when he frowns, she helps him, reaches out and touches the pads of her fingers lightly to a sore spot on his neck.

She used to hate it when girls would leave hickeys on him, used to yell about having to walk into church with a son that looked _leprous_, having to go out to dinner and see people _staring_.

_Steve _used to think it was awesome.

He doesn’t really know how to tell her this one, in particular, is not really a matter of the heart.

It’s more like one of the many bruises Billy Hargrove has left on him, just.

A little less hate behind it, now. But definitely no _love_.

“I’m not in love,” he says, dumbly, even though she didn’t ask _that_.

“Not even a little bit?”

Sure, he _could_ say he’s a little bit in love with the way Billy rolls his hips against his, or the way he always sucks on his bottom lip, or the way he looks at Steve sometimes, when he does or says the right thing.

But he _won’t_.

Because she can’t fucking _help_ him, anyway.

“Nope.”

“Alright,” she says, after a beat.

The laundry room is stuffy, heavy, has Steve’s hair deflating and dampening where the tips meet his face.

He runs a hand through it, listens to the rustle of his mom folding the clothes, smells the air and wonders how many dryer sheets she used.

How come nobody ever taught him how many dryer sheets you’re supposed to use?

“I’m gonna go get ready for work,” he jumps from his seat in the tank, plants his lips on the top of his mom’s head.

“Okay, you do that,” she starts a new pile of folded clothes. “...Steve?”

“Yeah, mom?”

“Whose shirt is this?” she lifts up a gray Hawkins Community Pool tee.

And.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Steve has never left for Scoops Ahoy so _eagerly_.

His dad would be _so _proud.

When he comes home from his shift, his mom is gone.

Her car is still in the driveway, so that probably means dad drove himself down to Hawkins and did his whole routine, the one with the red roses and the apologies, the same ruse he taught Steve when he was like, fifteen, and his date got mad at him for sneaking a hand up her skirt.

He finds lasagna in the fridge and a yellow note on the counter, an excuse and a smiley face, a lipstick kiss and a couple hundred dollars in an envelope.

His first thought is to call Billy, maybe tell him he needs to come pick his shirt up tonight, jump his bones the second he walks through Steve’s front door.

The idea vanishes as soon as it appears, though, leaves him feeling dizzy, bodiless, almost _high _with how quickly he choses to _not _do that, how his mind does this fast, one-eighty spin he’s not used to.

He thinks, maybe that’s what growing up feels like.

Maybe that’s what being _sound _feels like.

Maybe that’s what a _good decision _feels like.

Right now, Steve fucking _hates _it, but.

He knows he should want to get used to it, probably.

_four._

“Jesus _fuck_, man, watch where you’re going!”

Steve’s hot and stiff and unsteady, and he keeps colliding against other bodies.

He’s shaking.

He’s alone.

He’s always alone. And he _hates_ it.

He didn’t come here alone.

But he lost Robin.

He lost their other coworker, too — the one with the lip ring, what’s her name?

It’s dark, and then it’s not, and then it is, again.

It’s red, then it’s blue, then it’s green, then it’s purple, and it’s _always_ pitch black.

His heart is hammering in his chest.

It’s faster then the beat of the song that’s blasting from _everywhere_.

He’s sweating.

He kissed a stranger with a pastille on her tongue.

She passed it to Steve.

Steve swallowed it.

That was a while ago.

And these are the facts that he knows.

Steve wants to talk. He wants to _touch_. He fucking _can’t_, though.

He manages to flip that guy off before shoveling through another mass of people. He’s looking for someone but he can’t remember who.

Is someone in _danger_? Is he too late? Where is he even _going_?

He could’ve sworn he knew all that, by now.

“Harrington,” maybe _he’s_ in danger. Steve’s hands twist around a bat that isn’t there. “That you?”

It _is_ dark, so. Steve nods, intends to do it only once but his head keeps bobbing on its own.

It makes the room swim around him.

There are hands on his shoulders — no, _teeth_ — _no_, hands.

The fingers feel like spicules, though, electrifying, pulling on every nerve in his body like they’re violin strings.

_God_, he wants to _touch_.

His own palms splay over a chest, muscular, warm, fingertips tingling as they slide down to draw shapes on the ridges of a stomach.

Knuckles close around Steve’s wrists, then, _really_ fucking tight, but it’s okay, it still feels good.

“What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?”

Steve smiles, because he’s so used to being the one out of the loop, the guy things just _happen to_.

He guesses he still is, but.

Maybe not tonight.

Or, actually, _especially_ tonight.

He ducks in to kiss his second stranger of the evening but he misses, plants his lips too far left of a mouth.

The guy takes that opportunity to wrap his fingers around Steve’s throat.

“You’re fucking _vibrating_,” he says, squeezing. Pushes Steve away. Looks him up and down, like he’s pondering.

Maybe he’ll want to do it but somewhere more quiet, or private, or _completely_ pitch black, so he doesn’t have to look at his face.

Steve’s met plenty of guys like that, has probably been one, himself, more times then he’d ever admit.

It’s _Hawkins, Indiana_. _That _is a fact he _definitely_ knows.

“My parents aren’t home,” Steve says, clutching at the flexed forearm pressed against him.

The guy laughs, so Steve laughs, too, straining against a hold that’s getting increasingly more uncomfortable.

“Do you even know who I _am_?”

“Do I have to know you to _fuck _you, baby?”

The guy laughs a little louder when Steve puts a hand on the bulge in his pants.

“Okay,” he releases his grip on Steve’s neck, slides that arm around his shoulders. “Okay. Take me home, then, _King Steve_.”

When Steve comes to, his head is pounding.

He’s _parched_, mouth so dry he’s sure it’s been slit open in a few tiny cuts.

He reeks of sweat, cigarettes, blue curacao and _come_.

It’s absolutely _disgusting_, and he just prays he didn’t end the night in someone’s bed, because _no one_ deserves that.

As his eyes adjust to the dark he can make out his bright wallpaper, the outline of his furniture, his posters.

He’s home. He’s safe. He’s sure as _hell_ not going back to sleep, though, so he gets up, kicking off the jeans pooling at his ankles.

There’s noise coming from downstairs, and just like that he’s back to praying, because he does _not_ want to deal with his parents today.

Then he prays harder because, what if it’s _not_ his parents, that’s even _worse_.

A prayer for what he finds in the kitchen doesn't exist.

“What the _hell_ are you doing,” the _here_ goes unsaid. His voice is raspy and his throat fucking _burns_. He needs to drink some water.

Billy turns around, lets Steve peek at what he’s cooking over by the stove. “I’m making _breakfast_.”

“_Why_.” Steve pours himself some coffee, instead, leaves his question mark into the mug.

It’s not the coffee he made yesterday. Billy probably brewed some more, this morning.

“Because I got _hungry_,” he can _hear_ the eye roll, doesn’t see it because Billy turned back around, shuffling over a big pan.

“What are you making?” Steve trudges to stand beside him, catches himself before Billy can say _breakfast_ in his _annoyed_ _voice_ again. “Like, what _food_ are you making.”

“Your favorite,” Billy grins. “Eggs.”

Steve eyes the pan.

It’d be pretty infuriating if he actually thought that was Steve’s favorite meal? Especially considering he knows, like, _two_ things about Steve.

But. It does look_ good_, right now.

“You _do_ know I don’t, like. Robin and I don’t _fuck_, right?”

Billy blinks at him.

“Okay?”

“We are _just_ friends.”

“And it’s important to you that I know that because…?”

It’s a good question.

Steve doesn’t know how to answer it because, like, he usually doesn’t _think_ too much before he speaks, so he doesn’t have a clear motive _that_ often.

People like _Eleven_ or _Billy_, they think too much before they speak, and then they assume everyone else does, too, and _that_ just makes Steve look stupid.

“You thought we did? Like, one day at the Scoops. You said I let her cook me breakfast after we fucked,” he puts a tentative hand on Billy’s shoulder, and when the shove doesn’t come, he lets it weigh. “I would, like. _Never_.”

Billy laughs. It _sounds_ sincere.

“You saying you wanna take over, here?” he gestures with a spatula, like a total housewife.

“Are _you_ saying we fucked?” Because that’s the math Steve’s doing. He doesn’t know if they’re talking about the same thing, so maybe Billy will think he’s joking, again, but it’s not like Steve actually _remembers_ last night, so it’d be good to know. “It’s okay if we did,” he adds, because he doesn’t want Billy to feel bad or anything.

There’s a pause, then. The butter’s crackling in the skillet, and there are really tiny pieces of bacon spearing the eggs.

They’re mostly solid now.

_Definitely_ no brown bits.

“Are you serious?”

“...Yeah?”

He analyses Steve’s face, searching for any tells. “You don’t remember anything?”

“I. _Sorry_? I mean—”

Billy huffs, sounding incredulous, all like, “Yeah, no, it’s _fine_. We didn’t _fuck_.”

“Oh,” Steve picks up a fork from the sink and steals a little bite of the eggs. “Okay.”

“_Okay_?”

Steve chews. “Yeah, okay.”

Billy switches off the flame on the stove and turns to face him. “You’re telling me you don’t remember a _thing_ from last night, don’t even remember if we _fucked_, and this, all of it, is _okay_ with you?”

And, well. What is he supposed to say?

He wants to tell Billy to _chill_, wants to tell him it’s not that serious, wants to tell him it doesn’t really _matter_, but.

With the way Billy’s _talking_?

Maybe it _should_.

“Listen, man, it’s_ all good_. I, like, _don’t care_.”

Billy keeps staring at him like he’s _insane_.

“You were rolling _so_ hard,” he says, and it feels like it should land with wit, but it doesn’t.

“Okay? I _figured_ that out,” the comedown is _bad_, by the way. He’s barely awake again it’s already so bad.

“You wouldn’t stop shaking, and. Fucking _blinking_, I don’t know. It was the _creepiest_ shit.”

Billy’s taken to eating right from the pan, too, and it serves Steve right, to stand there and listen to the awful screams of metal on metal when Billy’s fork scrapes against the pan.

“Yeah, okay, it _sucked_, alright, Nancy Reagan? I’m not gonna do it again, _God_.”

“_Right_, but. You were _real_ fucked up, Steve. I had to drive you home.”

And.

_Steve_?

What the hell is _that_ about?

“l get it,” he pronounces every word pointedly, puts a pause in between them so Billy _understands_ that he gets it, like. _Enough_.

“Nah. I don’t think you do,” Billy takes a step forward, crowding in. “I don’t think you get that I _could’ve_ fucked you, and you would’ve _laid_ there and _took it _like a little _bitch_. Probably would’ve even _liked_ it.”

“_Okay_, Billy,” Steve says with his mouth full.

Billy grips his arm, digging into the meat right below his shoulder.

“It’s not fucking _okay_, Harrington, what the fuck is _wrong_ with you?” he sounds a little desperate, the way his mom sounds sometimes when she’s trying to shake him awake from a nightmare. “Do you not _care_ about what could’ve happened to you?”

“Oh, my God, _what_? Do you want, like, a medal or something? Billy fucking Hargrove, local hero, _doesn’t_ fuck his zonked out friend even though he _totally_ could have,” Steve rolls his eyes then, when Billy’s mouth drops the slightest bit open. “Get over yourself.”

“You’re the dumbest motherfucker I have ever _met_,” Billy spits at him, features going hard and mean. “And we’re _not_ fucking _friends_.”

He doesn’t understand why Billy hangs around, after that.

Steve does the dishes, takes a shower, waters some plants, all the while Billy’s sitting on his couch, watching cartoons on the TV and visibly _fuming_ with anger.

“Are you okay?” Steve dares to ask, from a safe distance.

“Fuck off.”

“It’s _my_ house,” no response. “Okay, well, I don’t know about you, but _I_ gotta get to work soon, so—”

“_You_—I just. Jesus _Christ_, man, it’s _just_ that you got me real fucked up, right now.”

Steve doesn’t really want to do this, feels absolutely drained from that party, muscles tight and throbbing, but.

He still walks into the living room and sits down on the couch, next to Billy.

“Why don’t you care?” he continues, unprompted. “Like, why don’t you do anything anymore when I fuck with you?”

“You. Are you saying you want me to _fight_ you?”

“I want a fucking _reaction_, Harrington! It’s like you’re a fucking zombie, man,” his voice drops on the last part of his sentence, and as unexpected as that was, it’s nice to know what Billy wants from him.

It’s nice to know what people want from him.

It’s nice to _know_ things.

He just. Doesn’t really know what to do with them, is all.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t fucking _apologize_ to me.” 

“Okay.”

“Don’t say _okay_, either.”

“I… _alright_? I mean. What the _fuck_.”

Steve wants to _cry_.

Billy looks at him like he knows it.

And, like it wouldn’t make everything even _more_ confusing, Billy kisses him.

Maybe if Steve wasn’t so stupid, if he knew what was happening for once in his life, he wouldn’t be in this situation.

But the actual, really sad part of it is, Steve can _tell_ Billy’s trying to be gentle. _Nice_, or whatever.

But that’s not Billy, and that’s not _them_, and soon enough Steve’s being manhandled onto his back, holding onto Billy’s hair the way a girl would never let him, rutting furiously against his thigh.

“Fuck, this is so fucking hot,” Billy breathes into his ear, shoves his tongue in and grazes his teeth on Steve’s lobe. It makes him squirm, caught between pulling away and pushing into the touch.

Steve doesn’t know what “this” is, to Billy.

Maybe he thinks they’re having make-up sex. Maybe he thinks they’re having hate-sex. They’re not even having _sex_, and they’re not going to, _ever_, but.

Maybe that’s what he thinks, anyway.

“_Billy_—“

Billy shoots him a look that only lasts for about a second, and then he’s licking into Steve’s mouth, sliding his tongue against his, grabbing the muscle on the outside of his thigh. They grind together like that, hard cocks grazing with every move.

“You’re such a fucking _slut_. I love it,” Billy’s panting, latching onto his lips and stealing the air from his lungs.

It takes _everything_ in Steve to plant a feet down on the couch and get some leverage to fuck up against Billy, trying to find the right angle.

He grips Billy by the hip, wraps a leg around his and slots it under his ass. It’s awkward, but it’s also really fucking good, like.

Almost too fucking good, like.

Steve wants to cry even _more_, now, feels it bubbling up in his chest and rise up, searing, in his throat, like laughter. That’s how good it feels.

He lets out a sob.

“_Baby_,” Billy’s clutching the side of his face, kissing his lips chastely, repeatedly, rutting against him so mean.

On the next, deep roll of Billy’s hips, Steve comes, and it’s _painful_, surprising, worn out nerves reacting too fast for comfort, like his body was just _waiting_ for this, standing on the knife edge of pleasure for hours and hours. 

It brings goosebumps that prickle like needles, has his balls drawing so tight he feels a pull in his belly. It’s full-bodied and intense, leaches the little energy he had right out of him.

Billy palms at the front of Steve’s boxers, pushes against him until come is soaking through the fabric. He rubs him, making Steve shudder manically, muscles burning.

“So pretty, so fucking _good _for me,” Billy’s cooing at him, petting his sensitive dick.

He’s pawing frantically at Billy’s back, has a million requests to make but the only thing coming out of his mouth is this ridiculous noise, annoying and desperate, wet like a cry.

Steve is _exhausted_, barely even registers when Billy warns him that he’s close, perks up the slightest bit when he asks, “Wanna take it in your pretty little mouth?”

He nods, watches through half shut eyes as Billy crawls up his body, the waistband of his shorts pushed down below his balls.

Billy’s left knee keeps slipping into the space between the seat and the back of the couch, and he curses, lets his other leg fall to the floor and sets his foot down, gripping the cushion next to Steve’s head.

Steve places a palm on Billy’s thigh, presses against the muscles there with all five fingertips at a time.

He grips his spent cock with the other hand because he misses the overwhelming touch, thinks that somehow, that’s how it’s supposed to feel, _all _the time.

“Open up, _yeah_, just like that. Stick your tongue out,” Billy’s panting, and he _is_ close, Steve can tell, because his words come out in a jumbled, whizzing string.

The wet head of Billy’s dick brushes Steve’s bottom lip before it slides inside, in and out, smearing pre over all of his taste buds. Billy straightens up and pushes down onto Steve’s tongue, stroking the base furiously, gaze glossing over Steve’s face.

He keeps his mouth open, doesn’t close his lips around Billy, doesn’t jerk when Billy’s fist almost connects to his chin, which would’ve been _real_ bad, because Billy’s going _so_ hard.

His other arm fucking _shakes_ under his weight but Billy doesn’t stop, and he doesn’t stop and he doesn't stop until he’s shooting warm ribbons of come into Steve’s mouth, painting the roof of it, hitting his uvula like a bullseye.

It’s a weird angle, has Steve’s throat pulsing repeatedly, trying to swallow it all down.

Billy sounds pained, moaning with relief, fucking his cock up into Steve so forcefully it drags over the edge of his _teeth_, which can’t feel nice, but Billy’s definitely not complaining, so.

He slides all the way down, where his come _still_ is, making Steve gag as Billy holds his dick there.

There's a terrible squelch, then, but Billy seems too blissed out to care, back arched and mouth open in an endless stream of _God, baby, such a fucking slut, I love it, love your fucking mouth, love fucking you, I fucking love you, fuck._

He says them so many times the words stop making sense to Steve.

It feels like forever goes by before Billy drags his shorts up and tucks himself back in, before he settles between Steve’s legs, falling back onto the couch, chest rising and dropping in what looks like a big blur from where Steve’s lying down, limp.

Another forever goes by before Steve finally starts crying.

Realistically, he knows it’s what’s bound to happen after you take _that_ much ecstasy and _then _come as hard as he just did.

He still feels like a total baby, though, but he also feels like there are a lot of reasons why he could be crying, so it’s okay, mostly.

Sure, the timing kind of sucks, but at least he waited until they were _done_, right?

“Are you—Harrington, are you _crying_?” Billy’s staring at him now, sitting up. He just. Cries _harder_.

“I’m just really fucking _tired_.”

Billy stares and stares. Nothing in Steve’s face moves except the tears that won’t stop flowing.

“Okay,” Billy says, flushed. “I’ll be right back.”

Steve lets his head loll sideways, looks at the cartoon playing on the TV, muted, colorful.

He doesn’t remember the name of it, funnily enough.

Billy returns with a pill and some water.

And it would probably be smart if Steve _stopped_ taking drugs, but he knows that has to be like, an aspirin or a Valium or whatever the fuck Billy thinks he needs, so he takes it, anyway, drinks the whole glass of water, too.

He feels the couch dent by his feet, where Billy decides to sit, this time. Steve wants to touch, again, but it’s different from last night.

He doesn’t _do_ anything, though, not until the pill starts working and he throws his head into Billy’s lap, inhibited.

“Don’t fight it, okay? Just go to sleep.”

“I have _work_,” he stares up at Billy, slurring his words.

“I’ll wake you up.”

“Promise?” he sticks out his pinky; Billy just looks at it.

“Yeah. I promise.”

He’s loopy after a little while, saturated shapes swirling out of the TV box and into his eyes. It hurts, a _lot_, but he doesn’t close them.

It’s a bad habit he’s picked up.

“Wanna know a secret?” Steve whispers, or at least he thinks he does, can’t really hear himself over the ringing in his ears.

“_Sure_.”

“I don’t really feel anything, anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like. There’s nothing,” he draws a circle over his chest with a hand, “in _here_. _Nada_.”

A long pause, then.

He really doesn’t feel like fighting Billy on this, doesn’t think he’s got any solid arguments, especially not against what Billy says next.

“That’s _bullshit_.”

He sounds _hurt_, which is just ridiculous, honestly, borderline _funny_, so.

Steve laughs.

“What isn’t?”

Billy laughs back, way too loud.

“Go to sleep, man. _Jesus_.”

Steve does.

**Author's Note:**

> title and work inspired by Meanwhile, by Richard Siken


End file.
